My pony’s for sale….
Yes, it fucking works!
I wanna get a stripey zebra instead.
I’m gonna puke in your pants. I’m gonna be the knicker puker. Yeah.
You know, with you you you, it’s all me me me. Well fuck fuck fuck fuck you you you.
Can you hold my starfish? It doesn’t like it when I’m getting excited. Oh look, it likes you! Its legs are all creepy creepy.
I can’t control the kittens.
Too many whiskers!
Too many whiskers!
Hands up who wants sweets!
Hands up! Awwwwww, you’ve got no hands.
Sucks to be you, sweets for me.
Pygmy goat herding sucks. I’ve got this fucking teacup pig for a ride, and they just all laugh at me. Fucking mini-bearded bitches.
With just a little perspective, you will agree that you’re a festered limp fucking dick. Shrivel up my friend, shrivel up.
I’m gonna have a great day …
Don’t you fuck it up.
I have succumbed to temptation! Mankini or body wax? Decisions, decisions …
I’ve got something for you. It’s a future. And you can have it when you leave.
Oh, I hope you take this advice to heart: you look fat when you cry.
It’s taken me years to get things just fucking right, and one monkey comes along and ruins everything!
Stupid monkey! Grrrr.
This little tampon went out, this little tampon stayed home. This little tampon had an applicator, this little tampon had none. This little tampon’s covered in … poop. WRONG HOLE, PEOPLE! Wrong hole.
Yeah, keep laughing. Laugh your fucking face off, you giggling little freak.
“It’s definitely time to get up.
Yes. My dog needs a new tutu.”
Adam’s bouts of sleep talking often culminate in a spontaneous awakening. Sometimes those awakenings are mild but odd, with a sudden intake of breath and an immediate declaration of some tidbit of information that, considering that he has just emerged from sleep, turns out to be surprisingly relevant to the day; more often, his awakenings are dramatic affairs: a exclamation yelled into the silence or a fist to the headboard. In either case, Adam is instantly alert.
Since he often wakes up to find me giggling next to him, Adam gets just as excited to hear what he has said in his sleep as I am to tell him. Our ensuing conversations—dubbed “reveals” by me—can get pretty wacky. Luckily for me, the recorder is generally still going, allowing me to chuckle over them later.
Sometimes Awake Adam carries on with STM’s flight of fancy. For example:
“Don’t let the midget out of the wardrobe. No! He doesn’t come out until Thursday … Not until Thursday.”
ME: You said, “Don’t let the midget out of the wardrobe. He doesn’t come out until Thursday.”:
ADAM: He’s got to polish all my shoes. Cleans my shoes, straightens my shirts, and guards against moths. Thursday is his day off.:
ME: Are moths afraid of midgets?:
ADAM: He eats the moths.:
ME: Oh. Does he get to eat anything else?:
ADAM: Moths and dust.:
ME: Dust is mostly human skin cells.:
ADAM: He eats dust.:
ME: So, you’re saying he’s a cannibal. Aren’t you afraid of keeping a cannibal around the house?:
ADAM: No, I don’t keep him around the house. I keep him in the wardrobe.:
ME: Where does he go on Thursday?:
ADAM: I let him out so he can stretch his legs. It doesn’t take much. He likes to skateboard.:
ME: Does he?:
ADAM: Apparently so. I see him going up and down the hill. Then at six o’clock in the evening on the dot, he bounces back into the wardrobe. He likes it there. It’s cozy. He’s made a little nest in my T-shirts.:
ME: No wonder your T-shirts smell like that.:
ADAM: (calling out toward the closet): I love you, midget!: Next year I’ll give you a name.
Other times, STM’s utterances inspire Adam and me to examine life’s important questions:
“Jesus nipples on ice! I am NOT going shopping for hamster wigs!”
ME: Are hamster wigs wigs for hamsters, or wigs for people made out of hamster fur?:
ADAM: Ooh, that’s a good question. Well, if it was the latter, how many hamsters would have to be used?:
ME: Well, is it a toupee, or is it a long-hair wig?:
ADAM: It’s a patch job.:
ME: Then maybe you’ll need, like, six hamsters.:
ADAM: I reckon it sounds like I’m shopping for my hamster. My hamster needs a wig.:
ME: Is it for Halloween?:
ADAM: I was actually thinking it was for his self-esteem.:
ME: Awwww.:
ADAM: Little baldy hamster.:
ME: Why does he have low self-esteem?:
ADAM: He’s bald!:
ME: Ok, now, a hamster wig, is it just for the hamster’s head, or is it the whole body?:
ADAM: I don’t know. I’m just imagining this tiny little hamster with an ill-fitting, wrong-colored little head wig. But he’s happy.
After this conversation, we Googled “hamster wig” and, amazingly, came across a picture exactly as Adam had described. Some people just have too much time on their hands (… says the woman who spends her free time transcribing recordings of her husband talking in his sleep).
Hold me.
I want you to feel greatness.
I’m sorry, but, you can take your can-do attitude and fuck it ‘till it’s raw. Can you do that? Can you?
Oh! It’s a poltergoat. A poltergoat!
You can’t see ‘em, but you find all your clothes chewed. If you listen carefully, you may hear a ghostly baaaahhhhh.
Poltergoat! Baaaahhhhh.
You must be a cunt. Or a lawyer. Yeah, a lawyer.
CAKE-A-DOODLE-DOOoo!
It’s cake for breakfast!
She’s knitting me a jumper.
Fuck! I don’t want to be a social outcast.
Oh, not good.
Ghosts going bump in the night.
Clumsy fuckers.
Lead me not to the telephone, but deliver me some e-mail.
I’m like a vulnerable fawn in the woods. One that happens to carry an uzi, some ninja throwing stars, and a motherfucking bazooka.
I’m totally too bad-ass for tango.
Cha cha cha!
The carrots are winning! Damn those parsnips and their stupid infighting.
They’ve got so much to learn. Bring on the swede. Ooooh, that’ll show ‘em.
Oh, don’t worry, dear. The spot doesn’t make you ugly. No no no. The rest of your face, now THAT makes you ugly.
The spot’s just a highlight.
Ha ha ha. Who’s crying now? No, not you, you’ve got no tear ducts, you tearless freak!
If you look at me again, I’m gonna bugger your fucking eyeballs and eat them, so you stare at my shit.
Flowers for the lovers, schnapps for the thinkers, death to the vegetarians … I don’t care if you eat fish, you give yourself that stupid name, you deserve all you get.
What do you think you’re doing? Totally inappropriate behavior. Now sit down, put the electric sander away and concentrate on your art project, please…. Monkeys!
Cuff him! Arrest him! I don’t care, that manatee is going down!
What do I think? Oh, I think as soon as I finish this sentence, I’m gonna kill you.
I want Viking horns. Fuck-off big pointy ones. Yeah, Vikings. I’ve got an urge to pillage your ass.
Don’t. Don’t! Oh, don’t exfoliate your labia.
Everyday I wake up and I think, I look more and more like the perfect me.
Fucksticks! That’s it, I’m not playing anymore. Just give me back my tiara and my sash and the purple monkey.
I’m outta here.
You’re never too old for Legos…
Suck my balls, dumbfuck.
Building shit is fun.
If you make me read Plato, I’m gonna punch you in the penis.
Look at them staring at people like that. Your boobs are so obnoxious.
Uch.
I’ve weaponized this pumpkin. Yeah.
Just for you.
Never before have I had the opportunity to ride one of these wonderful creatures.
I’m gonna take it slow, and make it last all day. Mmmm-hmmm.
I love saddling up my hamster.
Oh, stop crying, emo. You can write it all down if you want. Then at least I don’t have to listen to your fucking whining.
Oh! It’s so cute.
Now put it back in the fucking box.
It makes me want to puke.
Oh for fuck’s sake! Double chocolate-chip cookie doesn’t mean two chocolate chips per cookie! You’re so literal! God!
I’m so lucky to have disciples like you—FRIENDS, friends like you.
Okay, Jesus, if you are the son of God, wave your hands in the air … Ha ha.
Didn’t think so.
You’re a cock and a fuck-up. Any further complaints can be directed toward my ass, where I’m sure you’ll receive a warm response.
Yeah I want a bike with 128 gears.
Fuck off, I’m not gonna ride it, schmuck.
I wanna BRAG about it.
“You can stop clapping now if you want. Really. You’ll need your energy for cheering me later.”
No question about it, Adam’s alter ego loves an audience. I think Sleep Talkin’ Man’s taste for the spotlight goes right back to that February night when he gave his debut performance. I loved it so much, it’s no wonder he stuck around. The more I delighted in his antics, the more prolific he became. Like a child, STM seems to thrive on positive reinforcement, and sulk when he’s angry. On those rare nights when Adam and I go to sleep upset with each other, I never get a peep out of him, as if he’s punishing me. On happier nights, he regales me with extended bouts of hilarity.
“That’s it. Your family: one big giant cluster-fuck.”
Perhaps a look at the extended family in which Adam grew up offers some insight into STM’s love of the limelight. This sizeable ensemble of uncles, aunts, cousins, second cousins, and second-cousins-once-removed frequently congregates, generally over food. These are high-spirited, raucous affairs at which the stereotypical understated Englishman would get lost in the overlapping cacophony of playful political debate, embarrassing anecdotes, and low-brow humor. But everyone in this crowd manages to hold their own. There is something very, well, Jewish about these lively family gatherings, which I found instinctively familiar and comforting, being so far from my own family and culture. It was heartening to find that, even in a society that is known for its reserved disposition, Jewish exuberance shines through.
Maybe it was a result of growing up as a member of this boisterous bunch that Adam developed both his joy in performing for others—something very much encouraged among the Lennard clan—and also his ability to comfortably fly under the radar when things get exceptionally lively—a useful talent amid such a rowdy group. As the sole performer in Adam’s slumbering subconscious, however, STM can shamelessly hog the limelight all to himself.
I used to wonder why Adam’s sleep talking so often coincided with my bouts of insomnia. I eventually figured out that it was precisely because Adam subconsciously sensed that I was listening—I might be tossing restlessly, or getting up to pee, or popping open the laptop—that he started performing. And, in fact, there is loads of evidence that Adam is on some level aware of the world around him when he’s asleep, as he frequently reacts to subtle external stimuli. For example, this is how he responded to the sound of me typing away on the laptop:
“Clip clop clip clop clip clop clip clop clip clop … Who brought a horse in the bedroom? Oh well. Looks like I’m sleeping in the barn.”
and me peeing in our en suite bathroom:
“What are you pouring that away for?
I wanted that. Christ you’re a selfish fucking cunt … I don’t care.
Cold tea is still tea nonetheless.”
(um … yuck?)and our little beagle Molly chewing her foot:
“Nibbling. Stop your nibbling.
Always with the nibbling.
Nibble my fucking fist! That’ll stop your nibbling. Can’t nibble with no teeth.”
and me getting back into bed:
“Whoop! Elephants landing!”
(I especially appreciated that one.)
He’s even reacted to several stages of stimuli, like so:
(I open the laptop in bed)
“Mmmm, balls of light. Bibble bobbly bibble.
Bibble bobble.” (I quickly close it again out of guilt) “Oh, it’s burst! I hope it enjoyed itself whilst it was around.”
(I think, screw the guilt, I’m bored, and open the laptop again. Adam sings:) “Here comes the sun. Hmm hmm hmm hmm. Here comes the sun, and I say … Hmmm. I said something. I forget what.
Not important now.”
My appetite for Adam’s sleep talking became insatiable, so naturally I started exploring whether I could trigger him. After much experimentation, I have learned the following:
• DON’T say his name, or actual words of any kind. Something about language from outside his own head seems to jolt him back into the waking world, with all hope for sleep talking dissolving into the night.
• DON’T pet him, stroke him, kiss him, hug him, blow on him, or balance objects on his head. Any of these actions causes Adam to believe himself to be under attack, resulting in a violent awakening accompanied by the shouting out of the name of whatever creature is out to get him this time.
• DON’T wiggle around to shake the bed. Although this does get him talking, he whines about being seasick on a boat, thereby making me feel like a bad wife.
• DON’T pick up Molly the little beagle and snuggle her up against him. He is likely to start awake suddenly thinking she is a furry monster, and scare the shit out of her. I eventually concluded that the safest yet most effective way to get Adam talking is to make a short little noise that I somewhere between a grunt and a hum. Just to let him know, “I’m here. You can entertain me now.” I call it “grumming.”
I carried on with grumming for a while, with great results. Eventually, though, Adam noticed my grums in the recordings and figured out what I had been doing. Feeling like a guinea pig, he extracted a promise out of me that I’d stop. Being the loyal, obedient wife I am, I did stop … for a while. But sometimes, on those really quiet early mornings, when the light is just starting to peek through the window and I’m dying for the kind of comic relief that only Sleep Talkin’ Man can provide, I give a quiet, little “maybe he won’t hear this on the recording tomorrow” grum. It still works.
Yeah, Happy Valentine’s Day.
Thanks for fucking me.
Now I’m going to ask really nicely for you to un-fuck this situation.
Just shut up.
Your voice is drowning me in a wave of bullshit.
Yesterday I made history.
Tomorrow can suck today’s dick as far as I’m concerned.
Guinea pigs make terrific drinking buddies. Just don’t eat them!
I bring sassiness, sexiness, and awesomeness to the table. What the fuck do you bring, dickhead?
I really wanna kiss your face … with my fucking fist.
Steady … steady … focus … FUCK!
Concentrate, concent—oh shit! SHIT!
Hmm, there we go … Ther—
Oh ass cunt wobbly tits!
I give up. I’ll never balance this penny.
Yeah, shove it in sideways until you can’t see any sunlight.
It may hurt, but it’s the only way you’re gonna keep those potatoes dry.
Who put the broccoli with the papaya?! Don’t EVER put the broccoli with the papaya.
The papaya needs no friends.
Leave the broccoli out of it.
/> Oh, I love the space you leave behind when you go away. So please, fuck off and give me back that space.
My eyeballs are sticky. Will you lick them for me? Make sure you get all the way into the tear ducts. Mmmm.
You over there,
you’re going to be my friend today …
I don’t know about tomorrow,
let’s just get through today, asshole.
Yeah. I’m gonna cook monkey brain.
Tell them it’s cauliflower.
I love the sound of veggies retching in the toilet.
Don’t you give me those puppy eyes.
Put ‘em back. Puppy needs them.
I am the hummus of knowledge.
And you are the breadstick to dip.
Bring it on, King Kong. I’ll kick your monkey ass right back to the jungle.
Little hands can’t manhandle.
No. They can only minihandle.
Oh, pity those little digits.
My ass rocks. Don’t you just love it?
You love my ass, can’t take your eyes off it.
I’ve got a horrible urge to catch tuna in your stockings. Sustainably, of course.
I am the lord of all pirates! I’ve got the treasure map to find ALL treasure maps.
Beat that, suckers!
You try so hard, and you fall so short. Just give up, numbnuts.
It will save you a lifetime of pain and shame. Your life: fail.
Why don’t you come back to me when your brain’s decided that it wasn’t designed to be a shit box, okay?
Sleep Talkin' Man Page 2
